


This Is Not Happening

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Altered Mental States, Incest, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This sort of thing doesn't happen to Percy Weasley</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Not Happening

Percy Weasley was strong, Percy was confident, and he'd proven it, hadn't he, in sharp-spoken words? He had unleashed a storm of fire and bile, one that hadn't existed a moment before, and walked out of the Burrow forever and never looked back. Oh, he'd regretted his choices later, in the ruins of power, but he'd never regretted the moment that he left his home. Never for a moment his decision to leave, to conserve his pride and shed his reputation, not even when faced with the loathing of a certain blue gaze.

It was not, then, a moment of weakness that drew him to the club. They called it Tiresias, after the Greek struck blind for his forbidden knowledge. He hadn't come from weakness, but fatigue: even iron learns to bend when under stress, and there were moments when he needed the release. He went to the club and ordered a drink and watched the pretty people fornicate on the dance floor with more grace than he himself could ever posess; he craved a cigarette and nodded his head to the ear-splitting music. He didn't dance himself, not because he was graceless or afraid, but because to properly dance you have to stop thinking for the moment and move your body to more primal stimuli, you must forget the world outside yourself and be; and if there's one thing Percy Weasley can never do, it's disengage his brain. When he tries to dance he is terminally self-conscious, eternally knowing exactly where he is and how he looks, and feels himself such a fool he'd rather sit. So Percy didn't dance, but only watched, and concentrated on the writhing bodies to the exclusion of greater concerns.

And that's how he spotted his brother, washed up on a human tide. Ron was dancing, convulsing, jerking and spasming madly out of the beat. His eyes were shut, his face was flushed and wet, and some anonymous brown-haired man was trying to control him, steer him, lead him off the floor. Percy watched, and stared, as Brown-Haired Man dragged Ron forcibly to a table, and guided him into a seat. Ron had trouble keeping it, though, and kept sliding off to on side, clinging to the table for support. Brown-Haired Man tried to have a conversation, and Percy saw him touch his brother's hands: gentle touches, intimate ones, leading into the sleeve of his shirt. But Ron was too busy hanging onto the table, and suddenly began to screech and howl, cries that seemed to come for root of his being and made his bony body bow and shake. Percy noticed the tears rolling down his face, and wondered whether he was laughing or crying. Brown-Haired Man finally left him in disgust.

Ron spilled off the chair, finally, still howling aloud, and Percy changed his future once again. He descended from his table and knelt next to Ron, and tried to pull his brother off the floor. "Ron. Ron. Are you okay?"

He fell silent, and opened his eyes: eyes that were white and black with just the thinnest rim of blue. It took him some moments to speak. "Hi, Percy."

"What's the matter with you?"

"M'drunk." He giggled.

Percy tried to hoist him to a chair, but Ron was heavier than him, and wouldn't budge. His brother was sweating and shivering a bit in his arms, and Percy could feel the furious beating of his heart. Not just drunk, then; there were powders and potions of every description in this club, and Brown-Haired Man had apparently had more in mind than a dance.

He tried to change his grip and get more lift, but Ron suddenly curled against him, snuggling close. "Mmmmm. You're warm." Something hot and hard pressed into the curve of his thigh, and Percy mentally identified now what Ron had been given: they called it Lucrecia, and it was one part sedative and one part aphrodesiac mixed into liquor to cover the scent. It supposedly left you too passive to resist anything and too horny to want to; Percy had never tried it. Ron was in trouble.

"Come on," Percy said, moving his leg away. "Stand up."

"Don' wanna..."

"Stand up."

He talked him into standing, at the very least; they edged their way out of the club with a stumbling gait. Almost to the exit, and Ron suddenly sagged, pinning Percy against the wall with his greater weight. They were the same height now; they were nose to nose. Ron grinned lazily, drunkenly, and brushed Percy's hair out of his face. "I'm really drunk," he whispered, and kissed him, softly, slowly.

It was wet and clumsy and Ron's tongue tasted foul, and it didn't feel wonderful at all, and it didn't send a delicious thrill straight to Percy's crotch or leave his lips tingling when he wrenched them away. Ron was his brother, after all. That was wrong. "Ron," he said, shaky for no reason at all. "Ron."

"Mmm?" It's called nuzzling, Percy thought, Ron is nuzzling my face.

"We're leaving."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Stop that."

"Mmkay."

He had to push Ron upright and push him forward, out the doors, before somebody saw them. Not that anyone would tell; if you opinon mattered, you didn't go to this club, or at least you didn't admit it. Percy thought the cold air outside might sober his brother, but Ron only shivered harder and tried to snuggle close. Percy didn't want them wrapped around each other like climbing vines or fitted together like puzzle pieces, and it was bad enough when Ron let his head rest on Percy's shoulder so that his lips were just millimeters from Percy's neck, although the soft moist warmth of his rushing breath was entirely and completely unpleasurable. "We're going home now," he said firmly, pushing his brother, his _brother_ away.

"Tha's nice," Ron murmured, and tried to slip around behind him. Percy stopped him, because he had a terrible question.

"Where do you live, Ron?"

He reacted, at least, with something almost sensical. His face fell, his eyes pleaded. "No," he said, "no, no, no... Percy, please, I can't. Don't make me go home. Please. I can't."

"Why?"

Ron fisted his shirt and looked on the verge of tears, shivering in the street. "I can't. I just can't. Please, Percy, don't tell him, I can't, please don't..."

Him. Ron was living with a man. Percy did not feel any irrational jealousy like poison in his gut. "But you're sick," he said, but Ron was trembling and clinging to him, and even with a stone hard erection nudging into Percy's belly (but most certainly not because of it, not even slightly) he seemed so lost and helpess and young. "I could take you to..." not the Burrow, of course, because he wasn't welcome, and even if he left right away he wouldn't expose Ron to their parents, not in such a state. "To..." Not Harry Potter's placefor all Percy knew, that was where Ron had come from. It disappointed him, who knew everything, that he couldn't think of anywhere else.

"...my flat?"

Ron just shook his head and kept murmuring, "Don't make me go home, he'll be mad, please don't make me go..."

Percy walked him to the Muggle corner and hailed a taxi; it was a feat, with Ron hanging off his arm and mumbling into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the motions of his lips not pleasing in the slightest. They fell into the cab, and Ron set about trying to climb into his lap, but the driver was used to such things and kept his eyes front without comment. Percy convinced him to stay on his own half of the seat, and even let Ron's head rest on his shoulder; after a while he found himself stroking his hair, which was stiff with product and sweated out of whatever style it had once held. He even let his eys drift shut, and he concentrated on its texture and its smell, rather than the sensation of a sweaty palm on his hip and thigh, of long fingers exploring his lower belly and between his legs. Because, of course, that wasn't happening, and it didn't feel good. They were brothers, brothers, brothers, brothers...

Getting out of the car was a production, and Percy could not for his life remember how Muggle money worked; he thought he gave the driver ten pounds, but it might have been fifty. He guided Ron into the lobby and into the lift, and there wasn't a hand caressing his ass or a tongue stealing a taste of his skin. The ride up did not leave him aching. He was not aware of any wet spot in his pants as he fumbled to unlock his flat, and his only motivation for leading Ron into the bedroom was that he'd be more comfortable on the bed. That was it. That was all. Nothing more.

Ron groaned as he sank down onto Percy's duvet, a sound completely unerotic. Percy removed Ron's shoes and tried to help him struggled out of his jacket; but Ron was limp and breathing evenly, as if he'd fallen asleep. Perhaps that was best. He got the most restrictive clothes off and made for the door, but a clammy tight grip chained his wrist to the bed. "No," Ron muttered sleepily. "Don't go."

"I'm going to sleep on the couch."

"No."

"I'll just be in the other room."

"Don't wanna be by m'self."

"Ron..."

"I'll be good," he whispered, pulling himself across the bed rather than pulling Percy to him, nuzzling his face into Percy's sweating hand like a cat. "I promise, I'll be so quiet, and still, and you won't even know I'm here, I promise...please...."

Percy started to say "I really don't think..." but never got a chance to explain, because the tip of one finger slipped delicately into Ron's mouth, and Ron licked at it before sucking it in. His mouth was warm and wet and soft save his teeth which were sharp, and Percy could not move at all, because he was too busy thinking mad evil thoughts in time with his jackhammer pulse. He knew to what this would be a prelude in another universe, he knew what couldn't happen and what he wasn't wishing would. Ron was his goddamned brother, and Percy knew Ron wasn't in his right mind and would certainly regret this come morning.

Percy knew there was going to be something worth regretting if this didn't stop soon as in _now._

He jerked away and stepped back, and didn't realize until Ron cringed that he'd pulled his slick fingers into a fist. "No," he said, breathing hard. "No. Absolutely not."

"Sorry." Ron hardly whispered, recoiling, curling away. He shrank, and Percy instantly regretted his harshness, because in spite of all things they were still brothers, and he still cared. He wanted to touch the shaking young man on the covers, soothe him, comfort him, embrace him. It would be the brotherly thing.

Percy didn't dare get any nearer than he had to. "Ron..." His voice didn't break like an adolescent's. "Ron. Just stay where you are and don't move."

"'M sorry."

"I'll stay with you."

"Mmmm."

"But you have to stay on that side of the bed."

"Mmmmkay."

"Don't move." He wasn't sure Ron understood a word of it. It didn't matter. Percy was strong, and Percy could do this, because Ron needed the comfort. He, Percy, was in control of this scenario; he, Percy, would keep things from going anywhere...inappropriate. Not that there was any chance of that. Of course not, because he and Ron were brothers. Percy wasn't even tempted.

Ron curled up on the other side of the bed, facing Percy but with a healthy distance between them; the large bed, which usually seemed like a waste of space in the small flat, was now a godsend. Percy took off his glasses and kicked off his shoes and lay down next to Ron, near the edge, with a wide swath of duvet between them. He shut his eyes and breathed slowly, evenly, trying to relax himself and calm his racing heart. He spared no thought to the shivering, sweating young man next to him with the same red hair and blue, blue eyes, so willing and so near, within his reach.

A zipper startled him, the rustle of the clothes grated on him. He kept his eyes shut and his body still, so that the hiss of skin on skin filled the room like a siren, punctuated with irregular breathing. He was not going to move. He was not going to turn his head. He was not going to let his hands drift to his pants, because his non-existant erection that had almost gone down was not surging back with a venegeance. He was not going to open his eyes just a little and squint, so that the shape next to him resolved into his brother, into Ron. Ron, face pinched, pants and trousers pushed down and hard red cock in both hands, squirming and grunting and frantically wanking himself, hands already sticky with the fluid oozing out of the tip.

Percy didn't.

Percy did.

Percy broke.

He pulled Ron to him, crawled atop him, fumbling with his own clothes even as he took his first kiss, his first bite. He wished he could lose his mind, he wished events would blur into a dark haze of skin and sex and heat, he wished he were as doped up as Ron and had the excuse. He saw everything, knew everything, thought constantly as he observed the lean body underneath him. Ron's neck was sensitive; so were his nipples. His body was mapped by strange scars, and he arched himself like a bow to seek out Percy's hands and mouth and cock. Ron tasted bitter and clean, and cried out loudly whenever Percy touched him just right, and clutched spasmodically at the sheets or at his brother's body. He practically begged for it, black and white eyes rolling, words slurred.

Percy knew how wrong this was. Percy did it anyway.

Ron didn't protest when Percy raised his legs, even tried to talk him through it when Percy fumbled with lubricant. He was tight, but opened easily enough, and squirmed until Percy's fingers and his prostate came together. And then he was in, and they were fucking, and god, god, it shouldn't have been so amazing, it shouldn't have felt so good, and Percy had to squeeze his eyes shut because if he'd looked at Ron while he did this his he might have thrown up. As it was, he didn't make a sound until

"Ohhhh, ahhhhh, Perce....Perzzy....Peeeeeuuuoooohhhh shitsonofamotherfuckerahhhhh!"

He yelled nothing and slumped to the side amidst the wreckage of his crisply-made bed. He opened his eyes; Ron was sprawled out, very pale against the dark sheets, spattered with semen and breathing very deeply. When Percy moved, he rolled over and tried to tuck himself against his brother's thinner body with a little groan. "Mmmm. Love you." Or something like that.

Percy bolted, and then he really did throw up, bent over the kitchen sink. He dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead against the counter edge, and prayed that he would wake up or forget or drop dead. Or maybe all three, at the same time. After a long time, he swallowed around the sour burn in his throat and peeked back into his bedroom: Ron was curled up loosely on his side, half-covered by the bedclothes, clutching a pillow. Alone in the huge bed, he almost looked like a childlike. He almost looked innocent.

He went back to the kitchen and retrieved the bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. Without dressing, he pulled a chair up before the window with its back to the bedroom. He poured shots into a teacup, staring at the street, and waited for the gods to strike him blind.


End file.
